Child, Child
by daymarket
Summary: Modern AU. Raised in an abusive home, Murtagh has only one person he can rely on. MurtaghxThorn, sort of.


**AU, set in modern times. Murtagh's about seven or eight in this, I guess. **

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Murtagh wrapped his arms tightly about himself, listening to his parents scream at each other. Soon, he knew, would come the wet, fleshy sound of a slap or a punch. Then the crying. He didn't know what he dreaded most, the screaming or the weeping. Or the crunch of beer cans, strewn carelessly on the ground and stepped on by some hapless foot.

It seemed like there was never enough money for food or clothes, but always just enough to buy beer. Through the crack underneath the door, he could see shadows moving erratically as the fight continued.

"Why won't they stop?" he mumbled, rubbing his face with his hands.

Thorn looked back at him with sad, knowing eyes. "I'm sorry, Murtagh," he said quietly. He moved closer, laying his head on Murtagh's shoulder. "It'll all be over soon."

"But it won't end," Murtagh said softly, shivering. "It'll just happen again tomorrow, or the day after, or the day after that." He swallowed. "I'm scared, Thorn," he admitted finally, his voice barely a whisper.

"Will he come in?"

Murtagh shrugged, burying his face in Thorn's shoulder. "Sometimes," he muttered. "I don't know." He raised his head, staring fearfully at the door, praying that it would stay locked. "Sometimes Daddy is just too angry."

"He drinks," Thorn said quietly, pronouncing the words as a judgment.

Murtagh gave a half-hearted laugh. "So does Mommy. Don't all grownups?"

Thorn made a small sound of disgust; startled, Murtagh turned to look at him. His friend wore an expression of contempt, surprisingly vicious with its intensity. "No, they don't!" Thorn said fiercely, turning to glare at Murtagh. "Not all grownups drink, Murtagh. This isn't right, Murtagh. After all that—"

"What else can I do?" Murtagh said, the words a plaintive cry. "I can't stop Daddy. Mommy always just says that she was so clumsy, she slipped or fell or tripped. And maybe she does—"

"What about _you?_" Thorn hissed, gesturing at the mottled purple marks on Murtagh's arms and legs. "He's used you as a bloody punching bag, Murtagh!"

Murtagh tugged at the hem of his jeans; they were threadbare and far too small for him, showing inches of bruised ankle below the stained cuffs. "They—I—I made Daddy angry," he whispered, burying his head in his arms.

Thorn snarled, actually snarled. Murtagh flinched away; Thorn grabbed his chin and glared fiercely into his eyes, forcing the boy to meet his gaze. "It's not your fault, Murtagh! Your father—he's a monster, can't you see that? And the way he beats you—you should tell somebody, Murtagh!"

Murtagh jerked his head away and played with a loose thread for a moment, eyes downcast. "I tell _you_," he muttered at last.

"Besides me," Thorn said, sounding exasperated. "A teacher? The police?"

Murtagh gave a lopsided shrug. "Don't want to go to jail."

"You're not going to go to jail, Murtagh!" Thorn cried softly. "But your father shouldn't hit you all the time—and he shouldn't hit your mother, either. It's just not—"

"Don't want Daddy to go to jail either," Murtagh muttered, resting his head against his drawn-up knees.

He could feel Thorn's incredulous gaze on him and averted his eyes to avoid it, staring down at his bare feet. He could feel a chilly breeze whipping in from the window above his head—it was late autumn, almost winter. Almost time for the new snow...

"Angel wings," he whispered softly to the darkness. He closed his eyes, resting his head against the wall.

"Angel what?" Thorn said sharply.

"Snow," Murtagh said dreamily. "They're the wings of angels. In winter, our guardian angels come down to protect us, and we know that they're here when it starts to snow. Every snowflake is a feather, drifting down from the sky." He glanced at Thorn, who looked bewildered and upset. "That's what Mommy said," he explained abashedly, remembering where he was. "It was a long time ago, though."

"Before your father lost his job," Thorn said grimly. "Before that night, when he came home covered in blood—"

Murtagh shuddered, pressing his face against Thorn's chest. "Maybe," he said, his voice muffled. "I don't remember."

He heard Thorn heave a tired sigh, but at the same time, he didn't move. Thorn didn't speak, for which Murtagh was grateful. The shouting had stopped now—there was only the metallic crunch of beer cans and the screaming of some late-night show on the television.

His stomach gave an audible gurgle; raising his head, Murtagh studied the closed door and calculated his chances. Did he dare to go out now? If they had passed out drunk, then he could go out and try to get some food. It did happen sometimes—Daddy got bored of yelling and told Mommy to get him a beer, and then they settled down for some serious drinking. Well. Among other things.

Murtagh winced as memory flashed through his head: a muddled image of walking into the living room and seeing them sprawled in a sweaty, naked heap on the ground. Thank god that Daddy had been asleep that time, or surely he'd've been beaten.

But Mommy hadn't been asleep. They'd looked at each other across the filthy room, purple bruises shining lividly on her pale skin, mottled patches trailing across her face and arms and breasts. They stood staring at each other for one frozen moment until he had the sense to flee the room, running back to the sheltering arms of Thorn.

Because Thorn was always there, no matter what. No matter how exasperated he might be with Murtagh's silence, Thorn would never abandon him.

"Love you, Thorn," he murmured into his friend's arms, nestling deeper into the comforting hold.

He heard a soft sigh from above him and ignored it, closing his eyes. Thorn's hand rested on his hair, brushing the dirty locks into some semblance of order. "Love you too," came the quiet murmur, and Murtagh smiled.

He drifted in a restless sleep, always aware of the chilly breeze and the aching hunger in his stomach. At some point he woke up, aware of the ominous silence: the television had been turned off. He raised his head sleepily, blinking in the darkness.

"Wha'?" he mumbled, rubbing his eyes.

"S'nothing," Thorn murmured softly, patting him gently on the back. "Go back to sleep."

Closing his eyes obediently, Murtagh slept.

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Murtagh didn't like school. He didn't really understand what the teachers were talking about when they went on and on about multiplication and division and other big words that made his head spin, and his homeroom teacher, Mr. Orr, always seemed to have a special frown just for him. Murtagh made a point to avoid him as much as possible, and his fellow classmates as well.

It didn't always work, though. Bathrooms were dangerous territory, as were the cafeteria and the gym. The bus, too, was out—one particular boy, Durza, liked to heckle him as way of early-morning entertainment. Mostly it was harmless: just taunts and jeers, but once Durza had shoved him into the lamppost and thrown his bookbag into a gutter.

So now he walked. It wasn't that bad, really, perhaps a half-hour trek. At any rate, Thorn was always with him, and in the calm of the early dawn he could tell Thorn all the things that he couldn't tell anyone else.

"Here," Thorn said as they set out that morning, shoving an apple into Murtagh's hand. "Not much, yeah, but that's all there was in your fridge."

Murtagh's eyes widened and he grabbed the apple with greedy hands. He bit into it, letting the sweet juices out onto his chin and dribble onto his shirt as he hastily chewed and swallowed before someone took it away. Thorn eyed him with amusement, shaking his head. "You're a mess, kid," he said, pointing at the stains. "Slow down, okay? You can't just gobble things down or you'll get a stomachache."

"Hungry," Murtagh mumbled indistinctly around a mouthful of apple.

"Yeah, well." Thorn's expression clouded for a moment before he shook it away, smiling with an effort. "Hey, try to get a couple from the Cornwell girl, okay? You're going to need more than just an apple today."

Murtagh considered it. Patricia Cornwell always kept a huge stash of Milky Ways in her cubby; it was always pretty simple to reach in and take a few: even though he didn't ask, he wasn't _really_ doing anything wrong—was he? It wasn't like she'd really miss them, anyway. Lately, though, she was becoming suspicious, raising hell about it and running to Mr. Orr. Other kids had been complaining too, about missing food from their lunches—small things, like milk or oranges.

"It's just a little," he mumbled, kicking at a stray leaf. "It's not like I take a _lot_."

"They're all too fat anyway," Thorn agreed. "They could stand to lose a little weight."

Murtagh smiled, then shivered as a gust of wind blew past. Thorn noticed it and frowned, moving closer. "You need a thicker coat," he murmured quietly. "It's going to snow soon."

Murtagh shrugged and pulled the stained sleeves of his jacket closer to him. It was a bit too small for him—a gift from his uncle Garrow three years ago—but he wasn't about to ask Daddy for a new one. Maybe he'd search the closet later today.

"M'fine," he mumbled.

Thorn gave him a skeptical look, but Murtagh ignored it. Wordlessly, Thorn held out his arm, and Murtagh snuggled into the embrace.

"We should hurry," he heard Thorn say softly. "Mr. Orr's always got this really nasty look whenever you're late."

"Like he stepped in a pile of poo," Murtagh said and laughed. "I didn't study," he confided in Thorn. "I don't know how much six times five is or anything like that. Mr. Orr's going to be so _mad_. He'll be like, 'Murtagh, why didn't you study? You need to apply yourself to your homework!' I never say anything, but I promise, Thorn, this time I'll tell him, 'You know what, Mr. Orr? _I don't care!_'"

He grinned. Thorn smiled ruefully, shaking his head. It felt good to rebel, even if it was just in the privacy of the morning. "You do that," Thorn said, rubbing him on the back. "I bet he'll send you to the _principal's_ office!"

Murtagh shivered deliciously. The principal's office was forbidden territory, somewhere that

Really Bad Kids went. He'd never been there before—Mr. Orr just yelled a lot, that was all.

They walked on in companionable silence for a while until the gloomy gray of the school appeared in the distance; Murtagh studied it thoughtfully. Maybe he would do something different today. Something...something special, something—

A hand grabbed the back of his jacket and shoved hard, sending him sprawling. Murtagh yelped with pain as he hit the ground, rolling over to look at his tormenter. It was a heavyset boy, dark brown hair failing to conceal the nasty grin on his face. "Heya, Pussy," Durza leered. "Miss me?"

Murtagh felt his tentative confidence draining away, instinctively curling in himself. _Pussy_. That's what they called him; he wasn't too sure how the nickname started, but he hated it. "Stop it," he said, his voice wavering. "Durza, go away!"

"What, are you going to _make_ me?" Durza smirked. "Little pussycat. I miss you at the bus stop, you know. Nobody else ever cries as well as you do."

Murtagh felt himself starting to cry now; he bit back the urge, determined not to let Durza win. His expression must have showed, however, for Durza laughed cruelly and shoved Thorn away from him, sending Thorn sprawling onto the hard pavement. "Oh, stop crying, you baby," Durza said contemptuously. He smiled nastily. "I'll see you later, Pussy…I've missed you."

He swaggered away, slapping Murtagh on one side on the head before he left. Murtagh waited until he was gone to crawl to Thorn's side, shaking his shoulder. "Thorn? You okay?"

"Yeah," Thorn grunted, sitting up. "Oooh, my _ribs. _That brute."

"Sorry," Murtagh mumbled, staring down at his hands. "It's because of me."

Thorn groaned and flopped back down onto the pavement. "Oh, _don't_ say that," he said tiredly. "It's not your fault, Murtagh, it's that little monster's. The only thing you're guilty of is letting them walk all over you!"

"Don't want to fight," Murtagh whispered.

"Murtagh, sometimes you _have_ to! Otherwise you'll just keep on getting shoved around by creeps like Durza and your father. Sometimes, you have to—have to speak out, have to fight for yourself!" Thorn pushed himself up on one elbow, staring hard at Murtagh. "Come on, Murtagh!"

Murtagh gave a tiny shrug. Thorn sighed, that exasperated sigh that he did so well. "We should go," Murtagh said in a small voice.

"Yeah," Thorn grunted, getting to his feet.

Murtagh watched silently as Thorn dusted himself off, twisting his fingers nervously in his lap. When Thorn turned to look inquiringly at him, he blurted out, "Thorn?"

"Yes?"

"Are you—" he hesitated. "Are you angry with me?" Because he wouldn't be able to stand it if _Thorn_ was angry with him, too.

Thorn sighed again, raking his hands through his hair. "No," he said at last. "I'm not angry at you, Murtagh, and I never will be. I just—I just wish things were different." He shook his head. "It's not your fault, Murtagh."

Murtagh swallowed, the fist in his chest clenching. Thorn wasn't mad at him. That was good.

"Just—just think about what I said, okay? You can't let people walk over you your entire life." Thorn paused. "But I'll always be here for you, Murtagh, I promise."

Murtagh took Thorn's hand, feeling himself relax. They resumed their walk to school, his step lighter despite the impending day ahead.

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Murtagh passed the tedious morning by plotting ways to steal food. He managed to filch one Milky Way, but that was all—Patricia Cornwell walked in just as he stuffed it down his shirt and gave him suspicious looks for the rest of the day.

Aside from the botched theft, luck seemed to favor him. He managed to give Durza the slip all morning, as well as a number of the more unsavory bullies as well. He snuck off to the library with Thorn for the lunch break—the bullies never thought to look for them there (the presence of so many words probably scared them off). Murtagh couldn't really read the books, but he liked to look at the pictures with Thorn. And sometimes Thorn would read his favorite book to him, _The Big Red Strawberry_.

"...and the bear said, 'Little mouse, that's _my_ strawberry," Thorn whispered to him, and Murtagh giggled in eager anticipation. He knew this story by heart really; Mommy used to read it to him when he was younger. It was the only one that he could read, _really_ read. But Thorn read it so much better, with funny voices and sound effects. Whenever the bear spoke, Thorn growled and made his voice all deep and low.

"'I'm so sorry, mister Bear!' the poor little mouse cried," Thorn read on, and Murtagh giggled again. "'I didn't know it was your strawberry!'"

Murtagh tugged at Thorn's arm. Thorn turned to look at him inquiringly, and Murtagh whispered conspiratorially into his ear, "And then mister Bear feels sorry for him, because poor mister Mouse is so hungry," he explained. "And then they share the strawberry, and they all live happily ever after!"

"Gosh, kid, you don't even _need_ me to read this story," Thorn laughed. "You've got it all by heart, haven't you?"

"Mmm," Murtagh said, flushing with pleasure. He liked it when Thorn called him _kid_. "I like the mouse."

"So do I," Thorn said, sliding an arm around him and hugging him close. "But I think mister Bear's the nicest, because he shares the strawberry."

Murtagh nodded enthusiastically. "Yeah!" he said, waving his arms about for emphasis. "And when the strawberry's divided, you know, mister Bear always—"

"Shhh!" came the irritated hiss as the librarian bore down on them, wearing a fierce scowl that would've made the bravest man quail with terror. "Quiet, Mr. Morzansson!"

She stormed off magnificently, leaving a trembling Murtagh in her wake. Thorn shook his head with disgust, rubbing Murtagh reassuringly on the back. "Old biddy," Murtagh heard him mutter under his breath.

"What's a biddy?" Murtagh whispered, curious despite himself.

"It's a—well—tell the truth, I'm not sure what," Thorn admitted. "Heard it somewhere, though. Maybe it's a kind of bird?"

Murtagh considered this. "Why would you call someone a bird?"

"Because they crap all over the place? Mrs. Pince always looks like she's about to do a number, with that look on her face—"

Murtagh giggled at that and quickly hid his face in Thorn's chest to muffle the sound. "Sorry," he whispered when he could control himself. "I didn't mean to be so loud."

"Not a problem," Thorn said, squeezing him reassuringly. "It's fine, Murtagh—never be ashamed of happiness. We should go though—lunch break's over, isn't it?"

Murtagh groaned as the clear chime of the bell cut through the peace and quiet of the library. His stomach rumbled anew, reminding him of his hunger. "Yeah," he said reluctantly. "We should go back to class."

"Chin up, kid," Thorn murmured, rubbing his shoulder. Murtagh nodded unhappily, and they left the refuge of the library.

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Thorn met him after school, of course, and Murtagh felt the knot of hunger in his stomach relax just a little as he hugged his best friend. Thorn ruffled his hair affectionately as they made their way out of the chaotic school yard, always on the lookout for any bullies.

"So how was the afternoon?" Thorn asked as they began the trek back to the house. "Did you do okay on your math test?"

Murtagh shrugged, jamming his hands into the pocket of his jacket. "I did okay, I guess," he said slowly. "Well, I don't know. Mr. Orr yelled at me. _Again. _Why do I need to know the multiplication tables anyway?" he said rebelliously. "It's so stupid!"

"Well, you've got four years to go before you can escape Eisenhower Elementary, you know," Thorn said wryly. "Four years...lots of lectures to go."

"Four years," Murtagh sighed, wistfully imagining of the joyous day of graduation.

"Yep," Thorn said. He paused, then hesitated. "Ah...are you going to head home? Like, now?"

Murtagh brightened up at this, banishing all thoughts of his failed math test from his mind. "Can we go somewhere, Thorn?" he asked eagerly. "The mall, maybe?"

"If you're up to it," Thorn grinned, the teasing challenge inherent in his voice.

Murtagh grinned back. He never had any money to spend, but that was okay, because you didn't really need money to get stuff. And really, it wasn't actual stealing they did, because it was all small stuff that nobody would miss or really care about. Kind of like Patricia Cornwell's candy bars, really.

Besides, he was hungry. And he'd never been caught yet.

"Come on, then," Thorn urged. "What're you waiting for?"

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It was really easy. Murtagh lingered in front of the candy section, with Thorn keeping a watchful eye for any grownups. Casually, Murtagh slipped two packs of M&Ms into his jacket pocket—he liked the peanuts kind, while Thorn preferred dark chocolate. He paused, eyeing the rack with a connoisseur's consideration: Reeses or Snickers today? Choices, choices.

"Hey—grownup incoming!"

Murtagh hesitated, then grabbed a Snickers bar. He stuffed it into his pocket, then gasped with terror as a large hand clamped onto his shoulder, the fingers digging hard into his collarbone. He spun around, staring terrifiedly into the face of a man dressed in employee blue, whose expression was one of righteous indignation.

"It's not right to steal, you know," the man said sharply, brandishing a broom like a weapon.

"I—I wasn't stealing," Murtagh quavered. "I was just—"

"Right, you were just. Kids these days! We're calling your parents, kiddo." The man grabbed his arm and began to drag him towards the back, where the manager's office was.

"But—" Murtagh felt himself beginning to shake. _Not my parents!_ came the horrified scream from deep inside, but he couldn't give the scream a voice. All he could do was look at Thorn for reassurance that wasn't there.

The next hour passed in a terrified blur—they coerced him into giving up his phone number with threats of juveehall (whatever it was, it sounded terrible) and called his parents. Daddy—Morzan—picked up the phone, and Murtagh shrank into his chair at hearing the indistinct rumble of annoyance of Daddy's voice.

While they waited for Daddy to arrive, the store manager delivered a lecture on the Evils of Stealing; Murtagh barely heard half of it, shaking with terror at the thought of what Daddy would say. He'd be so angry, and Mommy would be so sad, and then they'd fight again, and then Daddy would—

Daddy walked in through the door.

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Yes, I'm so sorry, I had no idea he would do anything like that…

"_You stupid brat! You completely humiliated me and your mother; what the royal fuck do you think you were doing, stealing candy?"_

No, we've done all we could, his mother and I, but he just doesn't listen. Yes, yes, I know...a terrible thing.

"_Are you unhappy with what we give you, then, huh, you stupid piece of shit? Not good enough for you, are we? If you ever do that again, god help me, I'll break your neck!"_

Yes, well, he's just a child...seeing as it's his first offence, can't you let him off with a warning or something? I'm sure he can come here after school to work it off, maybe…anything to make amends?

"_Oh, you think crying's going to stop it, huh? You think that moaning like a dog in the corner's going to help you? Nothing'll help! My boss didn't care; it wasn't my damn fault, but no one cared, now did they? Nobody cares about you, either! So shut up! Stop crying! _SHUT UP!_"_

His mother coddles him, you know. I guess she's led him to believe that he can do anything. Of course, yes, spare the rod and spoil the child—well, not the rod, really, we're civilized these days, aren't we? But he's been too sheltered all of his life, see, his mother dotes on him.

"_Get out of the way, Selena. Get out of the _way!_ He'll never learn if you keep on protecting him—he's old enough to pay for his crimes! Now get out the way, bitch, before I—oh, you want it, huh? Then _have_ it!"_

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"Heya, kid."

"Thorn?"

"Murtagh. It's over now."

"Thorn, I—I'm so sorry! I made Daddy angry; I never meant to, and I—I've been so bad—"

"No, you haven't. Murtagh. Listen to me, okay? You're a good kid. You're going to be fine. It's over now, okay? So just relax and let the nice people take care of you. It's all going to be fine."

"Really?"

"Really really. You'll see. I'll be here when you get back."

"Wait—Thorn—where're you going?"

"You have to go away for a little while, Murtagh, just until you get better. I'll still be here, waiting, I promise—"

"No! Thorn, don't leave me! _Thorn!_"

The child was clearly hysterical, flailing about even as they strapped him to the stretcher. "Hey," one of the paramedics soothed as the other prepared a syringe of morphine. "Your dad's in custody, he's not going to hurt you anymore—"

"Where's Thorn, I want Thorn, I—"

The paramedic looked around in confusion; there was no one else there in the filthy room. "I'm sorry, honey, but I can't find—"

He stopped, leaning over. Sticking out from the wreckage of the dining room table was a length of plush tail. He pulled on it, revealing a battered-looking puppy doll. Its matted fur might have been red once, but the color was faded and it was missing one eye. He looked quizzically at it for a moment before comprehension dawned, and he slipped it into the child's arms

"Thorn," the boy whispered, his arms hugging the doll tight, his eyes closing in sleep.

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**Think Calvin and Hobbes with child abuse, eh. Review please? TY luffs. ^^ **


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